


Three Covers

by celli



Category: Alias, Heroes - Fandom, Justice (2006), Kitchen Confidential
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-10
Updated: 2006-12-10
Packaged: 2017-11-25 11:04:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celli/pseuds/celli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three covers the CIA has created for its agents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Covers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amy/gifts).



> For [](http://fox1013.livejournal.com/profile)[**fox1013**](http://fox1013.livejournal.com/)'s birthday, only slightly belatedly, for she is all things awesome. Thanks to [](http://barely-bean.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://barely-bean.livejournal.com/)**barely_bean** for the beta.  
>  Spoilers: S1 of Alias, episode 1 of Justice, episode 2 of Heroes, episode 4 of Kitchen Confidential.

**I. Ron Trott**

"...my assistant is Amy."

"And what's your relationship with her like?" The agent leaned closer. Ron had summed him up within two sentences of their first conversation. Michael Vaughn, middle-class, slightly metrosexual, a true believer in justice and the law. Ron would never allow him on a jury, unless the client had a defense that would please a Boy Scout. Protecting a pregnant woman, maybe, or preserving the American Way somehow.

"What do you mean? She's my assistant. She does what I ask her to and she gets a bonus at Christmas. What's your relationship with your assistant like?"

The agent next to Vaughn gave a small snort.

"What about the paralegals?"

"What about them?"

"Their names, Mr. Trott."

Ron looked blankly at him.

"...right." Agent Vaughn made more notes.

"This is pointless anyway. I've seen your Agent Bristow. There's a superficial resemblance, but he's not me."

"He doesn't have to be you indefinitely, Mr. Trott. Just until the operative on the jury is identified and contained."

"Regardless!" Ron spread his hands wide. "I'm Ron Trott! You can't just put on a five thousand dollar suit and become me."

"It's a three thousand dollar suit, actually. The CIA drives a harder bargain than TNT&G."

Ron put on his best waiting-for-the-jury look to keep from showing his true shock at the man in the doorway. It wasn't the suit, or the watch, or the hair. It was the arrogant stance, the slight smirk, the confident stride. Ron put a hand self-consciously to his tie.

"Let's get this over with, gentleman." Agent Bristow sat down at the table and folded his hands in an exact mimicry of Ron's. "I have cases to try, clients to exonerate." He gave Ron the smile Ron usually gave reporters. "Hours to bill."

Ron began to worry.

***

**II. Matt Parkman**

"I can't believe you picked a doughnut shop, Mike." Weiss glared down at the bear claw in front of him. "It's like the worst cliche of all time."

"Hey, now you can tell Lynne in all honesty that you had to be here for work."

"Janice." They'd agreed very early in their respective assignments to only use cover names, no matter what. It felt oddly like being married to two women on occasion. "And she's still going to kick my ass."

From the rustling of the paper, he could tell Vaughn was laughing at him. The bastard. But all he said was, "Can we concentrate on the report and not the rendezvous, buddy?"

"Fine. The good news is that they're finally getting me an in on the Sylar case."

"The Feebs let you do more than direct traffic? How'd you manage that?"

"Oh, I have my ways," Weiss muttered.

"And can you tell what they've got on him yet? Does it look Rambaldi-related?"

"I wouldn't be surprised."

The rustling of the paper stilled. "What happened?"

Weiss tried to decide if he wanted to break the news by going through the events at the crime scene yesterday, or by telling Vaughn he knew he was thinking about the hockey game last night and whether Sydney would--whoa. He raised an eyebrow at his pastry. His friend had a dirty mind.

***

**III. Jack Bourdain**

There was a crash, and a splash, and a squish. A pot lid clattered to the edge of the stove and spun there dementedly. Will glared down at it. "This _sucks._ "

"Amen," Vaughn said from next to him. Will looked over; Vaughn was covered in flour and--

"Dude, is that honey?"

"Shut up."

Will couldn't help it. He started laughing.

"Shut up!" But Vaughn was laughing too.

"You know you don't even have to sit through Snooty Restaurant Boot Camp," Will said when he could breathe again. "All you have to do is pop in every once in a while, put on a superior French accent, and drop the term 'sous chef' into the conversation every few minutes."

Vaughn assumed the French accent, which just made Will laugh harder. "Yes, but you see, if I am to be the convincing superior French chef, I must have the intimate knowledge of my convincing superior French craft, no?"

"I, on the other hand, have to do this like someone who was born to do it. No faking it for Mr. Bourdain." Will looked down at the pot lid, sighed, and knocked it to the floor. "Okay. Let's start over."

They cleaned their areas with minimal fuss--Will could clean like a pro at this point, even if he couldn't cook like one--and started measuring again.

"We're glad you came back, you know," Vaughn said.

"Yeah. Well, I still feel sort of responsible for not exonerating David McNeil back when I was a reporter. If someone in the 'restaurant underworld'--and God, is that lame-sounding--can clear him for good, then I need to be a part of that." Will started to gesture to make his point, then winced as he caught the side of the pot with his sleeve and knocked it to the floor. "Crap!"

"At least we haven't set anything on fire this week," Vaughn said resignedly as more flour scattered itself over his arms.

"Yet."


End file.
